


Rhyme and Reason

by crimsonherbarium



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Souvenirs, aziraphale's shop is a mess but it's HIS mess and crowley loves it, dewey decimal system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 07:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/crimsonherbarium
Summary: Crowley has never been able to understand how Aziraphale can find anything in his bookshop short of using miracles. Whilst trying to make sense of the chaos, he discovers that he isn't the only one who's been keeping souvenirs of their encounters.





	Rhyme and Reason

Aziraphale’s bookshop contained no shortage of literary marvels. 

There was a beauty to it; that could not be denied. The smell of ink and pages gone yellow with time, leather-bound and intricately stitched covers as far as the eye could see, books piled up on every flat surface available, including several that were never intended to be used to store literature. 

It was Aziraphale, through and through. Every volume was lovingly tended to as if it were a child, treated with only the utmost of care and affection by the angel who had appointed himself their steward. Aziraphale cared for his books more than anything else in the world, except perhaps for food. And sometimes, perhaps, for Crowley.

The demon was currently lounging on a rather dusty velvet chair in some forgotten corner of the shop, watching with an incredulous expression as the bookshop’s proprietor bustled around, pulling volume after volume from the shelves and piles until he was holding a stack so high that it all but obscured his face from view. 

“How the Hell do you find anything in here?” Crowley said finally, looking around at the chaos and clutter. Hell itself was better organized. Darker, and less pleasant, but they did have systems at least. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale reached up with some difficulty and retrieved a book from a high shelf, adding it to his stack.

“Look around, angel.” Crowley gestured at the teetering piles of literature that threatened to topple over at any moment. “It’s a mess in here, even by my standards. How can you possibly know where you’ve put anything?”

“A place for everything, and everything in its place,” Aziraphale replied curtly. “I have _systems_ , you know.”

“Systems?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, and you don’t have to be so rude about it.” 

“Okay then, please, enlighten me. Because, and I hate to tell you this, but Melvil Dewey is one of ours.”

Aziraphale shot him a reproachful look from around his stack of books. “I go by category, thank you very much. Dewey’s system might have worked well for public libraries, but it’s laughable for my collection.”

“Course. How could you use a catalog system when half your books aren’t even on shelves?”

“Really, now.” Aziraphale set the stack he’d been carrying down on a table with a thump. “Fine, if you’re going to be so stubborn, I’ll show you.”

“Please,” Crowley said with a flippant gesture. “I’m all ears. Eyes. Whatever.”

He abandoned his chair and followed the angel into the recesses of the shop, noting at least three mouldering mugs of cocoa Aziraphale seemed to have entirely forgotten about scattered about amongst the stacks. He grimaced. Wasn’t he supposed to be the gross one?

“Here,” Aziraphale said, with a rather infuriating holier-than-thou expression on his face. “This shelf are all Infamous Bibles.” His fingers trailed down their spines lovingly. “And here—” he darted across a narrow aisle and indicated another shelf— “are Oscar Wilde’s complete works. First editions, of course…”

“Course you know where your favorites are,” Crowley dismissed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What about the rest, hmm? What about—” he picked a shelf at random, squinting to make out the half-faded titles imprinted on the spines. “What about this one? _A Tale of Two Cities_? Thought you said Dickens was a wanker.”

“Certainly not in such words,” Aziraphale protested, looking distinctly ruffled. “I merely implied that his contemporaries—”

“ _The Master and Margarita,_ ” Crowley continued. “Goethe, Austin…angel, these books have nothing to do with each other.”

“That’s not true.” Aziraphale frowned. “This shelf is…um, well. If you must know, these are all books that have to do with you.”

Crowley blinked. _“Me?”_

“You’re not the only one who keeps souvenirs, you know,” the angel huffed. “Don’t even get me started on the eagle lectern you stole from the church—”

“S’not like anyone was guarding it,” Crowley interjected.

“—and anyway, it just made sense,” Aziraphale finished. “Well?” he said, folding his arms crossly. “Are you going to laugh?”

Crowley swallowed. “Course not. Why would I?”

“I just…well, I thought you’d think I was being silly.”

Crowley made a number of indistinct noises before his thoughts coalesced into words. “Ehm. No. I mean, can’t exactly take the piss out of you if I’ve got a flat full of souvenirs back home, can I?”

“‘Taking the piss,’ as you put it, is exactly what you do.” 

Crowley took a deep breath and sighed it back out. “Truth be told, angel, I don’t care how you organize your books. It’d take a miracle for me to find anything in this mess, but it’s not me it belongs to. It’s yours.” He looked up through a gap in the railing at the shelves on the second floor. “I’m just glad this place is still standing. Er, standing again. You know what I mean. Things wouldn’t be the same without it.”

Aziraphale looked stunned. “My bookshop is that important to you?”

“I mean, yeah?” Crowley shrugged. “Best place in London to get drunk with my best friend. You’ve been here almost two hundred and fifty years now, you know that? It’s familiar.”

“Has it really been that long?”

“Yeah.”

“Good Lord. Where does the time go?”

“It’s collected and reused, I expect,” Crowley quipped.

A moment or so passed in silence. 

“So,” Crowley said after a fashion. “Why _The Master and Margarita?_ ”

“Well, that’s rather an interesting story,” Aziraphale said excitedly. “Would you like to hear it?” 

“Oh, why not.” 

Crowley stalked back through the labyrinthine maze of bookshelves and retrieved a good bottle of scotch from its hiding place in Aziraphale’s desk. He poured two glasses and held one out for the angel, who accepted it gratefully. 

Crowley took a sip and grinned. “Enlighten me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've just finished watching the first half of episode three for about the fifth time this week and I can't handle these two in the slightest. I'd like to move into Aziraphale's shop and never leave. 
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a comment!


End file.
